Long Range (Joe Pickett Book 20)(6)

“Because if that’s true,” Martin said, “it means a total adaptation or change in animal behavior. It means six-hundred-pound predators have lost their fear of man. It means there could be a whole lot of dead people in the future.”

“Oh,” Talbot said.

“Now,” Martin said, “put all those theories aside for the moment. I want you to tell me again the sequence of actions you took yesterday after the bear attacked.”

Talbot physically recoiled.

“I’ve already told you,” he said to Martin.

“Tell me again,” Martin said. “I’m kind of slow.”

*

BEFORE TALBOT COULD respond, Martin’s satellite phone burred. They’d brought it along because there was no cell phone coverage in the area and they thought they might need to communicate with the pilot of the helicopter.

Martin pulled on the reins of his horse and stopped it. The other mounts in the string stopped automatically. Martin dug the sat phone out of his saddlebag and punched it up and listened for a moment.

Then he handed it toward Joe.

“It’s for you,” Martin said.

“For me? Who is it?” Joe asked. He tried to tamp down an immediate rush of worst-case scenarios involving Marybeth or their three adult daughters. That seemed to be the only reason why someone would track him down on Mike Martin’s satellite phone.

“It’s the boss,” Martin said.

Joe took the heavy receiver. “Joe Pickett.”

“Joe, I’m glad I caught you.” It was indeed Rick Ewig, the director.

“I’m in the middle of something,” Joe said.

“You’ll need to drop it,” Ewig said.

“What’s up?”

“Your judge up in Twelve Sleep County is on the warpath.”

“Judge Hewitt?” Joe asked. Hewitt was short, dark, and twitchy. The judge had a volcanic temper: he carried a handgun under his robes and he’d brandished it several times in his courtroom to maintain order. Every prosecutor and defense lawyer Joe had ever encountered was scared of Judge Hewitt.

“That’s him,” Ewig said. “He’s been on the phone with Governor Allen, and the governor’s been on the phone with me. You’re being called back immediately. As in right now.”

Joe said, “I’m on a horse just a couple of miles from the Teton Wilderness. I’m giving Mike Martin a hand with—”

“Forget that,” Ewig said. “Apparently, someone took a shot at the judge last night. He was at home at his dinner table and the bullet missed him by inches and hit his wife.”

“Oh no,” Joe said. “Sue?” Joe felt his body go cold. It had been less than a year since Twelve Sleep County had been rocked by a massacre on the courthouse steps that had killed the sheriff and seriously wounded the county prosecutor. Now the judge was a target?

“Sue sounds right,” Ewig said. “Anyway, she’s in critical condition and Judge Hewitt has demanded that all local law enforcement meet with him immediately. He suspects a drive-by shooting and he wants the guy caught. That includes you.”

Joe grimaced. “It’ll take me four hours just to get back to my truck.”

“No it won’t,” Ewig said.

The volume of the spinning rotors of the helicopter increased in volume as they spoke. Joe understood. Ewig had diverted the helicopter to pick him up.

Joe handed the sat phone back to Martin.

“Gotta go,” he said.

Martin shook his head in disgust. His feelings about aggressive top-down management were well known. Martin was old-school: he thought local game wardens should manage their districts as they saw fit with minimal interference from the “suits” in Cheyenne, even though Ewig had once been a game warden himself.

“Can I go with him?” Talbot asked Martin.

“Not a chance,” Martin growled.

“I’ll be back,” Joe said to Martin with a side glance toward Talbot. “I’m really interested to see how this ends.”

Julius Talbot looked away.





THREE


AT THE SAME TIME, INSIDE A FALCON MEWS ON THE SAGEBRUSH prairie outside of Saddlestring, Nate Romanowski firmly grasped a pigeon in his left hand and twisted its head with his right, producing an audible snap. When the bird’s body responded with a last-breath flurry of flapping wings, he held it out at arm’s length until it went still. Then he chopped it up with an ax and fed it piece by piece to his raptors. It was the fifth pigeon of the morning, and the air was filled with tufts of downy feathers and the crunching sound of falcons eating the birds, bones and all. The morning air inside the mews smelled of the metallic odor of fresh blood and the pungent smell of splashy white bird droppings. The gullets of the falcons swelled to the size of hens’ eggs as they ate, and Nate made sure all nine of his hooded birds were satiated.

It was the daily circle of life and death for a master falconer.

Nate inspected each bird—two red-tailed hawks, a gyrfalcon, three prairie falcons, a Swainson’s hawk, and two peregrines—to make sure they were all healthy and fit. One of his prairie falcons had damaged its left wing the week before during an ill-fated swoop on a prairie dog, but it seemed to be recovering nicely.

He referred to the falcons as his Air Force. They were the instruments of his bird abatement company incorporated as Yarak, Inc. Yarak, Inc. was hired by farmers, ranchers, golf course operators, and industrialists to rid their property of problem birds, many of which were invasive species like starlings. Business was good. To keep up with demand, he knew he needed more birds and possibly an apprentice falconer by the next spring.